


A Lust Dressed In Blue

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A man tipped in liquor often shows a side of themselves that is usually locked away. Sometimes, it's disruptive, or depressing, or even amusing. But rarely do they expose a piece of their personality that reveals what they truly think. What desire they hold that runs dry on their tongues.Geralt could have walked away and left it forgotten. But sometimes a hidden personality is too unusual to ignore.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	A Lust Dressed In Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day.

Roche was definitely beyond the realm of drunk. It was a peculiar sight to see, this man that bathed in blood and violence and decorated himself in stained lilies. His demeanor exuded arrogance and an unbridled temper, but when alcohol began to flow it softened him like a bull being given a sun-drenched pasture of grain. His harsh features that glowered and hissed showed signs of mirth and amusement and for once, Vernon Roche was approachable and decent. _Likeable_. He joined a card game and didn’t much care when he lost and even let Dandelion pull him to a table to be introduced. As if he was some newcomer to Redania and was enjoying the atmosphere it offered.

If Geralt was a bard himself, he would happily write the tale of how the fearsome Blue Stripes Commander could easily be tamed with a good pint of ale. It would make an amusing tale, possibly. After all, who had ever seen Roche give a genuine smile - even when it was laced with alcohol - and lived to tell about it? Probably make a few good coins from it since no one would believe such a thing. Everyone loved far-fetched stories.

Then it slowly drained into something odd - Roche’s personality. The haze took over the Chameleon and he found himself facing the infamous hound of Temeria who nudged him for attention; Hungry for affection he clearly starved himself from. Roche leaned in close. He gave him knowing smiles. And at one point, he even said his name in a way that make Yennefer blush. Roche was drunk and it was not as enjoyable as he thought it would be. As it had been.

Mostly because it stirred weird emotions in himself. Ones he didn’t need to think of.

It was bizarre and eerie and made the night drag on and the drinks run fast, even for someone as trained as he was at consuming alcohol. In fact, he was nearly glad when Roche finally pushed away from the table to stumble upstairs, realizing he was either acting foolish or too drunk to continue. Whichever it was, it left him sighing, the interactions being pushed to the back of his own slightly foggy mind to be forgotten. That would be it - _should_ be it. The end to a typical night of drunkenness at the strangest tavern in Novigrad; Where the women didn’t take off their clothes and the notorious Dandelion belted out obnoxious tunes while getting Zoltan to water down the barrels of mead. Where the poor could be treated rich with a few coins and the rich could be cast out as if they were beggars.

A place where even a Witcher and a disguised sorceress could drink and no one batted an eye.

Only the man who followed after Roche made his eyes nearly glow and he caught a scent that reminded him why he stressed for Dandelion to hire some sort of watchful eyes for the place. Novigrad, for all its fairness, was still haunted by men who saw easy opportunities, and a duty instilled in him to act. Roche was technically a friend after all. One he hated arguing with, but a confident he held nonetheless. He abandoned Zoltan’s stories, Triss’ tantalizing looks, and Priscella’s husky singing to stalk the shadows and make sure there wasn’t going to be a slaughter that night. Either Roche’s or the strangers, whoever was stupid enough to act first.

Which, in this case, happened to be the stranger. Geralt made sure his blade elicited no sound as he drew it from his back as he took the stairs two at a time and tasted the tension in the air.

Roche was none the wiser as he braced against the wall on the third story floor, bending over slightly for a breath, the shadows hugging him as the sparse candlelight flickered and kept too many corners hidden. Stupidly vulnerable; Definitely he was utterly smashed for he knew Roche better than most and he was not one to let his guard down, even when he was surrounded by his own men.

The stranger - swaddled in deep muted browns and greens, though his shirt ends were shaggy with mud - got the hint when he stepped between them and flashed his sword, silently reminding the man that he had no problems with cutting throats that night either. Wordlessly, the small dagger smartly withdrew; Even the lowlifes knew the eyes of a Witcher. There was a stutter of apologies, to which Roche looked over his shoulder, confused, and Geralt merely stood in front him as a protective wall as the man scurried away down the stairs like a rat that had come face to face with a panther.

“What?” Roche mumbled, the glaze in his eyes worrying, and Geralt only sighed, his blade slipping into its sheath with a delicate hiss. No need to explain to humiliate him. That had been the end of any further events that night.

_So he assumed._

His hand grabbed Roche’s arm, dragging him to a room, and Roche slurred something intangible before staggering to grip the back of a lone chair when pulled inside. Geralt said nothing as he made the signs for Igni and the only candle in the room flickered dully to life, giving off a pathetic amount of light. The wick had burned lopsided and the wax had built up too heavily on the one side, but it was enough for Roche to possibly strip and fall onto the mattress for sleep. If he even got that far.

“Sleep on your side,” was all he could offer for advice. Roche mumbled something, his back hitting the wall with a none too delicate thud, and he dug at his eyes with his palms. Geralt knew the action. He would have an aching head in the morning that would probably last an entire day’s length. Zoltan would have a cure for a few crowns come morning, but whether or not Roche would take it was up to him. “I’ll tell Dandelion you’re up here. You can deal with this all in the morning. I’ll lock the door.”

That’s where he should have left. He still had a mug of warm beer downstairs that Dandelion had bloody made him pay for and he didn’t like wasting coin, just like he didn’t like witnessing a complete collapse in judgment in his acquaintances. But Dandelion had mentioned once that every man, when sloshed, reacted in different ways. A hidden part of the personality would come out and expose itself, which was why drink was so dangerous to the uninitiated. Why it was the choice to be offered by men such as Dijkstra and Thaler. To see what a man really desired beneath it all.

When sloshed he acted stupid, as all of the North would gleefully tell him when he sobered from such jaunts. Triss got angry and giggly. Zoltan got boisterous and warmongering. Yennefer got, well. Best not to think of it. And Dandelion would sob and play his stupid lute until his fingers bled.

But Roche was different. He assumed he’d be cross and sour; A heightened experience of his already miserable personality. A single beer in Flotsam was enough to get him growling with wrath, and it wasn’t a stretch to believe anything extended beyond that would be a dangerous territory of him turning into a man possessed by a griffin. However this Roche, this man that slept with a dagger in his hand and blood on his knuckles wasn’t the same as he remembered. Vernon Roche changed in a way he failed to predict. The pleasing, the teasing, the flirting. Maybe Dandelion was wrong about this.

He had his hand over the door handle when the bottom of his jerkin was grabbed, and he felt Roche press behind him, like Ciri sometimes did when scared. He could feel his forehead rubbing against the tanned leather of his right shoulder and it made him hesitate, not sure on what to think.

“Do-Don’t,” he mumbled, strong but edged with alcohol. As if it was taking him considerable effort to talk normal. “’M _sorry_.” 

Vernon Roche apologizing? That was exceptionally rare. Almost frightening.

“I’ll make it - it up to you,” he begged. His tone caused his own shoulders to sag. This was what he was afraid of - Roche remembering this beyond the night.

“It’s fine, Roche,” he had to reassure him, taking care for him to take the hint that it should be forgotten and not spoken of again. After all, Roche did save his ass a few times. He barely wanted to remember the feeling he had in his chest when he was told he would hang before given the keys to freedom. “Sleep it off.”

“’M mean it.” He was mumbling again and his head was pushing hard against him. Like when a scolded dog was trying to crawl into its masters lap. Guilty yet forceful.

“Lay down on the bed in the corner, Roche. I’ll fetch you a bucket and some water for the morning.”

Courteous. That was the only way he could deal with drunks. Roche, however, pursued, and his arms slid around him, catching near his belt in a strange embrace, his breath coming out in a pant from behind.

“I’ll make it up,” he whined again with desperation. That’s when his right hand slid down to grab him. His palm cupping him through his snug-fitting leathers.

It wasn’t a situation he was foreign to. How many times he had taken a girl with a similar bold statement to the bed was beyond what he could count at the moment. Only this wasn’t a whore in Tretogor, nor a sorceress conjuring up divans in a battlefield. It was Roche. Vernon Roche. Torturer, bastard, and whoreson extraordinaire. The only thing he felt was shock.

Clearly, the drunken Commander felt his horror and he was released with a guilty breath. But the distinct thud that came from behind after made a shiver run down his spine. Knees hitting the floor. And damn him for being curious.

He _turned_. Slightly. But enough for him to view what Roche had done.

Vernon was on his knees, his eyes drowning in ale, but his face flushed and his mouth was parted to breathe. No, it was open and his tongue was visible in the dim light; An offering. One as clear as the bell that rang from the Temple Quarter with intentions bared open and bold.

What he should had done was left. This was beyond his capacity to handle.

Roche would have forgotten - or if he didn’t, he doubted he’d ever bring it up again. A few more tankards of beer would have made him erase the moment completely himself, and in the end ignorance would be bliss. That was words of folk wisdom, wasn’t it? Dullards seemed rather happy. He could be too if he just sank a good couple more tankards down his throat and never thought of this again. Besides, he only regretted getting black out drunk once, and that was mostly because Triss teased him endlessly about it before helping him get rid of the unsightly tattoo on his neck. That time, he deserved the ridicule.

But there was a catch to his idea of just turning around and stuffing his head in a barrel of aged honey. To forgetting the spectacle of Roche offering his mouth. His own blood was already clouded with lager and his judgment wasn’t exactly precise. It was just enough for the part of him that was curious to override the logic and nearly snicker with the open prospect. He was tempted by the scene; Roche was ploughing seducing him to be with just how enticing his open mouth looked. His tongue, his eyes, his hazy innocence that was strangely lewd.

So he shifted and stayed. Because there was a sick part of him that wanted to just to see what Vernon Roche would do. What he really meant by _making it up_ to him. What that tongue really wanted to do.

He stood rigid and unmoving, not daring to speak in case he said something wrong or foolish, but he let out long breaths that made it clear what he was thinking. Thankfully Roche said nothing about this, or anything at all - What was there to say? - but his eyes dragged to rest upon his pelvis and it made his cheeks flare. His gaze held something that suggested this wasn’t the first time he had looked upon him with such thoughts and it inadvertently sent shivers running down his neck.

No, he was reading too much into this, and he swallowed noisily, the sound knocking Roche out of his hungered stupor. Roche silently reached up to pull at his laces so he could tug him free and his audible breaths filled the room when his cock became exposed, his earthen eyes widening at the sight. Of course it made his face burn with a slight bit of humiliation, but even worse was how surreal everything was becoming. How strange this entire moment was. Below them the tavern roared and echoed, muffled by the layers of boards but not enough that it wasn’t clear there was a threat of exposure for the both of them. Yet the sound that was pounding in his ears was the noises coming from Roche. A trained killer. A spy, tactician, whoreson, and bastard. A man he had exchanged blows with, both verbal and physical, and had felt the back of when both had been pinned by Kaedweni soldiers. 

Now he was panting for a different reason and it made his own throat grow dry as he watched in near-horror as he leaned in. How his breath touched his hardening cock and sparked it to life. Roche licked his lips, wetting them heavily, before he softly dipped his head forward to taste his cock.

It all ended there.

First, Roche was far too good at sucking on him. There was no damn way he had the skills, even if he wasn’t drunk. It was too detailed and opulent and bloody sinful to be coming from the King’s former torturer. His mouth was as talented as the whores at the Passiflora and he briefly had to stare at the ceiling to gather himself as Roche slid his lips up and down his cock, moving every which way to coat it in saliva. This was not something a soldier learned and his delicate groaning was enough to set him on edge. 

Second, he never had even seen a woman come close to how far Roche pushed himself to take. The licking was one thing, but when he began swallowing him up, his cock disappearing down his throat at a frightening rate, Geralt had to stop him, lest he lose it in a sparse second. Drunks didn’t suddenly gain this type of expertise and it was beginning to alarm him on how good Roche was.

He stumbled back, hitting the door, and decided getting sloshed himself would definitely be the best course of action; To forget about this and drink it down as a fever dream that someone had cursed him with. But Roche desperately moved forward with him, nearly whimpering at the loss. Vernon Roche. _Whimpering_. It wasn’t as horrible as it sounded.

He held on to the belt that crossed over his stomach, desperately panting and sucking at the underside of his cock to make him stay, even sucking on the tip in a hurried fashion that dragged an unsteady groan from his throat. His mouth dipped down, his tongue sliding over his balls, and once again Geralt found himself trapped. Because, curse him, he hadn’t felt something like that ever. He didn’t even know he had a weakness to having his sack licked, but it made his back thump hard against the door and he didn’t bother shoving Roche off as he buried himself against his groin, frantically sucking at his body.

Even worse, his hand had grabbed onto the back of Roche’s neck and he encouraged him to continue, pushing his face against him more to keep going. It was stupid; What they were doing was beyond idiotic. But damn him to the shadows or whatever for it because he never had felt such depravity before. Yennefer, Fringilla, Jutta, even Triss, wouldn’t dare to do such a thing. One of the lower ranked whores in Novigrad? Maybe. But even then, they wouldn’t compare.

That alone should have rattled him enough. That Vernon Roche was doing a better job at getting him aroused than trained whores and sorceresses. His _weakness_. Yet he continued to remain rooted to the spot, letting Roche pull down his trousers more so he could angle himself to running his tongue underneath his balls, curling the tip so he could get more against his greedy mouth. Sloppily sucking at his fruits as if they were as delicious as the real thing.

After a moment, he gently pawed at him with his fingertips, groaning deeply as he sucked on the tightening skin over his sack, his tongue sinfully pulling each one into his mouth to be toyed with and tasted and kissed. Every time Roche released a ball, his hand pumping sloppily at his cock in unison, he heard the loud wet pops and felt the hot breath over his delicate flesh. It sent shivers running up and down the length of his body and his mind crackled like a fire being given whale fat to let it run hotter. Roche wasn’t acting as if this was routine, he was enjoying it through his hazed drunkenness, and it made him flush and shudder. Was this what he became when drunk? Brazen, perverted, and lustful; a rival to all the girls and vixens of Temeria?

For a furious second he pushed him back, just to take in his features that were slightly shadowed in the dark. He wanted to see how deep his need ran and if he was being affected as badly as him. Roche panted in confusion as he gazed up at him, his lips growing red with swelling blood, but his eyes didn’t change. They were still flooded with ale and fogginess, like a glass pane in the winter. However, he could see past them; to the lust that danced in his eyes.

“Roche,” Geralt muttered, and he responded by swallowing slightly before parting his lips again. Presenting him with the image of a man who was beyond hungry for his body. A question held in the air - he wanted to interrogate him at this point of weakness. Just what had the Blue Stripes Commander been doing to become like this? Who else did he practice on to gain such insight into a man’s - or monster’s - desire? But the more he stared at his face, he further he faltered. 

Roche hadn’t been bred for this. He looked like any other poor sod of the North. His jaw held the faint outline of a beard that never seemed to grow. Harsh cheekbones and a nose that had been broken probably once. And copper eyes that shook with desire that were permanently shadowed with sleep deprivation and exhaustion. Yet there was a skill in him that made such things irrelevant. His deftness and perfection at teasing a man’s cock. How damned good it felt and how easily it got one trembling and pulsing for release.

Vernon licked his lips again, wetting them heavily, indicating what he desired, and Geralt had no argument to deny him. He carefully guided him back to his cock, to his tip that was beginning to ache with need, and in fascination he watched as Roche swallowed down, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked, before he comfortably let it slide in as much as it could. Beyond the point of comfort. Where he breathed through his nose and his brows fixed hard. Nearly all the way down, but not quite.

An inch of two short of driving him, a Witcher, completely mad.

Roche’s throat bobbed and the feeling of his cock being enveloped with muscle made him melt. It was hot and warm, like dipping into a sulfur spring in the winter, and Geralt slumped against the door, his own throat letting out an uncharacteristic pant of eagerness. It spurred Roche on and he angled twisted his mouth on his dick, trying to fit more into his already stretched throat. His rough fingers grabbed around the out-turned folds of his undercloth for leverage and Vernon held himself still, moaning gently, the vibrations not helping. Then he began to withdraw with a deliberate slowness that betrayed what a drunk would do and by the time he had reached his tip, Geralt hated to admit he was ready to explode.

Roche pulled off, but not before kissing the crown of his cock, licking away the precome. “Is it good?” he asked, his tone still slurred with ale. Geralt let out a breath from between his teeth. Roche licked his lips again, deliberate, and gave his cock a sloppy kiss. One that made saliva slide down the underside and the wet noise from contact bead more come on his tip.

He was stronger than this. Wasn’t he? He _had_ to be.

“Roche,” he huffed, forgetting that this was an ally - dare he even suggest a close friend, though the word didn’t seem right for someone as cruel as the former leader of trained killers - and he grabbed the back of his head, pushing him down again, his dick slapping against his cheek to rub. Roche took in a breath, the stench of alcohol clear, and he disobeyed to swallow him again. Like a smartass prick. He let him rub against his face, his tongue flicking out to lap at his shaft, but he refused to open his mouth. Like he wanted him to admit something. As if he was a haughty child waiting for sweets before giving up information. Arrogant and frustrating.

It was a mistake on his part. On both of their parts. Witchers weren’t bred for this type of control or teasing, and whatever Roche had been thinking shattered when he began to grow bold and impatient. He had alcohol in his system as well. Not a lot, but enough, and Roche’s velvet, hot, luxurious throat was too good to pass. He already had a taste of it and he was too hard and dripping and bloody on edge not to have it again. Vernon Roche had made another mistake that night, and it was driving a Witcher from the School of the Wolf to a point he couldn’t handle.

Forcefully, Geralt grabbed Roche, his right thumb catching the corner of his mouth to pry it open and he snatched his jaw open with the left, holding him with a bruising grip as he slapped his cock against his wet lips before shoving it in. Past his teeth and over his tongue into the wet heat he desired. Roche let out a sound - Shock? Surprise? Horror? - but it was too late. Geralt gripped the back of his head, shoving him down on his cock, gagging him on it. Forcing him to inhale as much as he could.

Then he began to fuck. Because he was finished with trying to hold back and it was the one motion his entire body loved. Wet, willing, lathering heat that coated his cock and left him shuddering in pleasure.

Roche choked - twice. Then he went slack and accepted it.

It wasn’t what he wanted, he admitted. Fucking his friend’s throat, not caring that he was probably going to leave harsh bruises on his neck from where he was gripping, not to mention on his jaw and mouth. But it felt beyond what he had expected. Intense, silky, tight. Like plunging into a virgin for the first time, one that was eager and ready and wanting it as much as him. He staggered forward, his eyes locking on the poorly melting candle, and he groaned deeply as he stood over Roche, fucking his mouth, thrusting into the wet, sinful space that was driving his cock insane.

Roche made no effort to push him off. In fact, he barely made a sound, his only movement his right hand shifting to grab onto the calf of his left leg, holding it with a shaking grip. A soft whimper escaping his throat. He let out a needy moan in return, at the acceptance of his domination, at the saliva that was soon dripping down his balls which slapped Roche’s chin with every thrust. There was groans and sucks of breath, the sloppy wetness edging him on, and he let a part of his mind go the more his hips begged to be allowed to fuck its new favourite hole. At the feeling of holding his dear ally down on his cock as he was taken to the brink.

There was no discussion on the peak or the release. It was whatever he wanted, and he wanted it down Roche’s throat. So it could spill and fill him and satisfy the sick part of him that was beginning to want to pin Vernon down and fuck him against the floor. His grip tightened, twisting the short hairs on the back of his head, pulling and clawing with a feverish need, and he heard him choke again. A sputtering gag that made Roche’s other hand move to grip his boot, but he was beyond being able to pull back. He merely held him down as far as he could on his cock, almost so Roche’s nose touched the base, before he released the backed up semen that he had tried to keep down. That Roche had made him realize was stored in his balls. It shook him to his own core, his boots scraping against the boards as he released and the thick come flooded into the desperately hot mouth around his cock. Enough to fill his throat and stomach and make him groan in melting pleasure.

Then his fever ended and he let go, finally releasing his grip so that Roche could withdraw. What he was met with was the sight of Roche pulling off his cock with a raw, roiling gasp as come spilled from his mouth, the trail white and dense. He coughed hard, his entire face flushed a harsh red, his lips swollen and smeared and wet trails of tears snaked down from his eyes. But he didn’t yell or howl or retaliate. He merely collapsed back onto his forearms, swallowing the air hard as well as whatever come he had left in his mouth. He was shaking, his legs spreading, a slight bulge prominent in his own trousers, yet it was too dark so see his full state. All he had for an understanding was how Roche struggled to breathe and the trail of come and pained tears that dripped down from his chin.

When Roche opened his eyes, the blurriness prominent, to look up at him with almost confusion and guilt, he fled. Like a coward. What else could he do?

His cock was shoved away, his laces tied in poor knots as he went back to the safety of downstairs, and Triss was the first to notice the edge he felt, how he grabbed half-swallowed drinks from tables to drown and suffocate himself with. He didn’t care what insults came his way, or even when Dandelion tried to ask him a question as he filled a tankard and drank it all within a second.

He came in Roche’s mouth. He fucked it. He fucked his friend’s face and made him swallow and choke and bloody left him upstairs like a whore he had used.

He had fucked Roche’s throat raw.

The amount of beer he consumed was monumental. Colossal. _Stupid_. Even Dandelion cut him off after a point, but it didn’t matter. He was ashamed in Novigrad and liquor wasn’t hard to find. All it took was him leaving - running, actually - and he was out into a city that embraced all the coin he had to wipe away his memory and the stickiness it had left. 

In the end, his drunkenness didn’t lead to an apology. Hell, it barely led to him being alive, considering how much he had to throw up behind the fish market. All it did was poison him to act even more foolish than he already was; To dunk himself in the canal and getting thrown out of Crippled Kate’s. He ran from it, like he did everything else and by the time he was dragged back to the Chameleon, his own self humiliated and dishonored, Roche was gone.


End file.
